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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806493">What Children See, That Grown Ups Choose to Ignore</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbethBeatlebub/pseuds/EbethBeatlebub'>EbethBeatlebub</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1800s AU, Fluff, M/M, McLennon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:56:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,576</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbethBeatlebub/pseuds/EbethBeatlebub</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul McCartney is a lonely toy maker. He loves his customers and neighbours but wishes for a family of his own. John Lennon is a customer of his. It isn't only John's son, Julian, who has developed an attachment to the handsome man behind the counter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>What Children See, That Grown Ups Choose to Ignore</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ca_rla4672/gifts">Ca_rla4672</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Regardless of what his family thought, Paul McCartney was not ashamed, nor regretful that he'd chosen the profession he had. After all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>had to make books and toys for children, didn't they?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, how Paul adored children. Nothing could compare to the feeling he got when they'd step through the door to his shop, parents in tow, and their whole faces lit up. He loved their laughter, their silly questions... even the wailing. Okay well maybe not the wailing </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much, but he figured you have to take the good with the bad. Parents absolutely loved him too. He knew every customer by name, children too, and what toys they liked the best. He'd pay them visits at their various places of business and they'd give him their patronage in return. He felt like his customers and neighbours were practically family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was also, sadly, the closest he'd ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to a family of his own. People often told him he simply ought to marry, if he wanted one so badly, but that wouldn't do much for him. Single mothers, widowed or otherwise would linger around with their children, hoping he might offer them a little more than a box of puzzle pieces or a wooden toy chest, and he always felt awful turning them down. It wasn't their fault he was different. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, there was </span>
  <em>
    <span>another </span>
  </em>
  <span>recently single parent he was interested in, but he'd never dare speak a word of it. As he pondered his predicament, a lazy Saturday afternoon, nearly closing time, he had sat down to work on one of his many music boxes. It wasn't much now, seven sided base, lots of gears and bolts and tines to fit into place. He didn't know what it would look like when it was finished though, his inspiration had run dry. It was only a matter of time before this niggling feeling took him over entirely, wasn't it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed, placing down the tools with which he worked, and wiped his brow, staring at the counter top. Its polish was the same reddish brown as his hair... especially with the sun glinting off it through the window. He averted his gaze and took to looking at the floor. How many times had he stood </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there</span>
  </em>
  <span>, with his son by his side... annoyed at himself, Paul rubbed his eyes and sat back on his stool, then crossed his arms, eyes firmly closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>... </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>*ding ding ding*</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The bell on the door jingled, breaking his deep concentration (nearly a nap), and his eyes flew open. Then, lurching forward he tried to look as though he'd been working the whole time. Light laughter met his ears, which then went pink. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It was him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, Mr McCartney?" Mr Lennon humorously inquired, stepping further into the shop, mindful of the displays. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul dared not glance up, but smiled politely, "Yes, I'm just finishing up however, can I help you, Mr Lennon?" he fibbed, putting away his supplies and the base of the box. He couldn't face him right </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr Lennon seemed unconvinced, or at least he didn't leave. Paul wondered at first what he could possibly be doing, when a colourful little painting was slid before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took it into his hands and inspected it;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a white and blue carousel with little white horses on it, with silver saddles and reins. There were silver flowers decorating the carousel's top, and a blue base. It was very detailed but the skill would imply a child had painted it. Paul finally looked up, the warm and soft smile on Mr Lennon's face nearly made him swoon, but he held himself together. He waited for an explanation, not that he particularly minded such a unique and quirky... </span>
  <em>
    <span>gift? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"My son Julian painted it," he announced, proudly, then tapped the corner of the painting "He told me it was for me to give to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul blinked and peered down to the corner indicated, and in sloppy lead writing was a little message </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dear Mister Mickartny, Thank you for my new rocking hors. Pleas come hav tea with Daddy and me some day, love Julian" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul's hand flew to his mouth, an unbecoming sound nearly escaping. Mr Lennon chuckled, and placed his hat back onto his head, preparing to leave, likely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's whimsical, is it not? I've no idea how he's become so infatuated with you," he began, then meeting Paul's gaze eye, he added in an almost bitter-sweet way, "Perhaps children merely see things that grown ups choose to ignore," </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul was left speechless still on the stool, staring after Mr Lennon until after he'd disappeared through the door and away into the crowded street. Julian had painted this... </span>
  <em>
    <span>for him? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He glanced down again at the painting, rereading those sloppy words. He sat back and thought about Mr Lennon's parting words too... that look in his eye (handsome eyes, so handsome), and the manner with which he spoke, (steady now, Paul, don't get ahead of yourself)... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He broke out into a hopeful grin and with another glance at the painting on the counter, he got out a fresh page from his sketchbook. He knew exactly what his music box would be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>...Two Weeks Later... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wasn't sure who on earth needed to buy books at nearly five-thirty in the afternoon, but at least he wasn't in a particularly poor mood today. Things had been hard since Cynthia had passed away years ago, but business was still business no matter how dreary. Pity, too, having a customer so late. He'd been intending to pay another visit to the toy shop... Well, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Julian</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course! Not for himself, no. It wasn't like he, John, could help it that his son had developed an admiration for that glorious (gorgeous) man behind the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John knew that Mr McCartney would likely be going home soon, as they both worked the same hours... well there's always tomorrow. He finally reached the door, whomever it was being rather persistent with their knocking. He was almost in a bit of a foul mood now, but as he opened the door... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mr McCartney!" he nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>gasped</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He stood back, door opened wider now, "What brings you here so late?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr McCartney, a flushed smile on his face simply shrugged, "I only finish up about this time, so I couldn't have come any earlier," he joked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caught off guard at the informality, John felt his heart leap, a smile gracing his own face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come in, please, come in," he stood aside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr McCartney complied, squeezing past him. John couldn't help but delight in the brief closeness. He could see the brown tones of his hair where the sun reflected off it, and he could smell him, and feel his warmth. How many times now over the years had he taken Julian to that shop? Every month, about twice, but more often he went by himself for his birthday and Christmas, so it would be a surprise. Normally parents </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> went in for those sorts of occasions, and more often than not he didn't buy anything at all, but merely would engage the charming shopkeeper in conversation, his son free to play with anything at all as long as he didn't break it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm terribly sorry for arriving so late, Mr Lennon, I just simply had to come by before you locked up" Mr McCartney explained, turning to face him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling bold, seeing the man of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>dreams</span>
  </em>
  <span> standing in his own home, John insisted, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just call me John, we're only friends, aren't we, Paul?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr McCartney, whose name John knew was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paul, </span>
  </em>
  <span>paused and seemed to deepen a few shades more red. He stammered for a moment before brightly replying, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh! Of course, </span>
  <em>
    <span>John</span>
  </em>
  <span>" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John immediately loved the way Paul said his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What is it you wanted?" he asked him, trying desperately to not let his imagination run away with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul took off his hat and his coat, and hung them where appropriate, then out of his large coat pocket he produced a box with a ribbon on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I come bearing gifts, in fact!" he announced, and handed it out. John glanced down at the box and with a suspicious smile took it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opened it up and inside was... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is this...?" he began </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A music box," Paul blurted, sounding just as nervous, "It err, plays </span>
  <em>
    <span>'sur le pont d`avignon', </span>
  </em>
  <span>if that's important..." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John took it carefully out, setting down the box. Then, he got it to play. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So it does..." John said, and stole a glance up at Paul with confusion. Then, Paul pointed to the lid of the gift box. John set down the music box and looked at the lid. Upon flipping it over he broke into a smile, warming up inside </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The painting Julian made for you!" he exclaimed </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes!" Paul confirmed, just as excited, "It's for yo-</span>
  <em>
    <span>him... </span>
  </em>
  <span>err..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bit his lip and placed a hand over the bottom half of his face. John looked back up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...Well..." he slowly took a few steps towards the other man, a hopeful feeling inside him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's show it to Julian </span>
  <em>
    <span>together </span>
  </em>
  <span>then. See what he thinks?" he proposed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul, after a bit, replied, "Children </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>see things we grown ups choose to ignore, after all" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They smiled at one another for a long while, then, John took the music box. And Paul's hand. </span>
</p>
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